


Crimson Bride; Crimson Babies

by JadeElite



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: F/M, Pregnancy, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 10:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16116653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeElite/pseuds/JadeElite
Summary: In an alternate timeline, Thomas Sharpe found before he traveled to America. A seeker of knowledge, a girl so bright she leaves a mark Lucille cannot cover no matter how hard she tries. They forged a bond so deep in fact that Thomas abandoned Edith Kushing to rush to the girl's side and comfort her upon her parent's death. In a heated movement, desperate to protect her happiness, he asked the Lady 'Lavander' Walker to marry him. Luckily she was smart enough, strong enough, to save herself, Thomas, and their unborn child (first of many they hope) from Lucille's psychotic delusions. For Lord Sharpe realized too late that he had sighed the death warrant of his only friend. Still, they're future is turbulent and uncertain.





	1. Asylum

The warmth of the fire tickles your bare toes as you allow your stockingless feet to bask in its glow. Your mother would be quite shocked if she found you this way. Found you abandoning her teachings of ladylike behavior in favor of laying on the sitting room floor with your dressing gown pulled up to your thighs so that you may feel the heat of the flames on your scars. But your mother isn’t. So, she can not stop you from indulging in such pleasures.

A deep sigh nearby draws your attention away from the orange flames and the flickering shadows they create. Your husband’s sharp features are twisted in malcontent. Pages of a lengthy letter, the handwriting that of Lucille Sharpe, (and delivered from the mental asylum to your lawyer who brought it to your new home seeing as measure has been taken to prevent her from knowing where you and her brother now reside), are scattered on the green cushions of the couch, one piece clutched tight in his hand.

“Thomas…” You reach out and place a hand on his shin, his eyes shift away from the paper, softening as they land on you. “Is everything alright?”

He sighs once more, setting it aside gently. “My sister… she is very unhappy with her situation, and has taken it upon herself to describe to me in no less than fifteen pages how much she feels so, and to tell me in extreme detail what she plans to do about it.” He runs his hands through dark locks of hair, they curl and twist before falling back into place. “She has nothing kind to say about either of us… and I fear…”

“Shhhh, there is nothing to fear my love.” You rub his leg comfortingly. “She is locked away, far, far from us.”

“But if she were to get out… to escape as she claims she will…” Thomas looks upon you with great concern. “She wants to take you away from me, to punish me for betraying her and… well am I not allowed to fear for your safety my darling?”

“It is a good thing she will not be escaping then, is it not?” You smile, trying to be as reassuring as possible. “And if by some miracle she does manage it, she won’t be able to find us.”

“Lucille has always had a way of getting what she wants, I mean look at the life I was living before you came into it.” He bends a bit so that he may lay a hand over yours. “You are always so calm, even in the middle of all that happened you kept so calmly.”

You turn your hand so your fingers may intertwine with his. “Somebody has to remain the rational one; if there isn’t a level head then everything descends into chaos, doesn’t it? That is the only reason she got away with it for so long.”

Thomas takes a deep breath and smiles at you. “You’re right.” Slowly he slides off the couch and descends to the floor, resting against your throne of pillows. “You’re always right.”

“Thomas we must stop living in the past.” You stroke his cheek with the back of your hand. “There is nothing for us there.”

“You’re repeating yourself, darling.” He teases as he settles beside you, one arm wrapping around your back. “I just want you two to be safe.” Thomas’ gentle hand rests where the fabric of your gown balloons over your swollen belly. “I want a future for us, but that means protecting you from the past as well.”

Now you are the one who sighs. “We can’t live in fear, nothing good grows out of it.” In response to their father’s voice being so close now, the fetus delivers a swift kick, from within your pregnant stomach, seeking attention and eliciting a giggle from you. The bright smile on your husband’s face warms your heart, as he moves his hand over the spot of the kicking, giving it a gentle rub in hopes of more movement. “Everything will be alright my love, I promise.”

“Alright, alright.” Thomas dips his head to lay a loving kiss upon you. He is rewarded for the attention he gives your belly with more kicks, and when he breaks for air, he moves down so he can lay another tender kiss upon the stomach as well. You can’t help but to admire the way the orange flames light up his face, the life, and joy that has filled out once too pale skin looks magnificent in the glow.

Thomas continues his attention to his unborn child, lavishing you and your belly with love and care and kisses, till the hour grows late and bedtime comes calling, despite how much you wish that this evening could last forever. But it is alright that it does not, time moves forward, and your child grows larger by the day. And as it develops this cottage in the woods becomes more and more a home.

You are comfortable in the fact that Lucille Sharpe is locked in a loony bin far from here. Thomas went through many trials to save you from her, and you to rescue Thomas from her delusional murder spree fantasy world. All of that was quite a tale, to soon be told for sure. But now the two of you focus on your dreams of weaving a happier story.

Hopefully.


	2. Crimson Dreams

You keep telling Thomas not to dwell on the past, but what you don’t tell him is how it haunts your every step. You do not tell him how each night you are plagued by dreams of Crimson Peak and the misfortune and misery that occurred there. Some nights you are blessed enough to dream of the kinder days you experienced during your first year as the bride of Baronet Thomas Sharpe. The ones where the two of you fell more and more deeply in love. The days where you showed him all the things you spent your life learning, taught him about herbs and flowers, showed him the drawings you spent tedious hours making of your specimens. The nights where you sat beside him watching those slender fingers assemble a new toy or model, leaned on his shoulder as he worked his sewing machine. If you are lucky, you dream of watching how he changed from a cold, untrusting man into the loving husband who puts his faith in you completely. Blessed nights are the ones where you dream of the days that the two of you escaped Lucille’s watchful, jealous eye, and you showed Thomas how love could be kind and warm.

Other nights, like tonight, the dreams are unbearable. Terrors so awful that you lurch into consciousness at varying intervals. Many nights Thomas takes you in his arms, soothes you with gentle words and caresses. There is always guilt in his eyes, knowing he is the fault for your suffering. That look is more torturous than anything your mind can throw at you. At least your dreams are only dreams, shadows of a past, but your husband’s pain is real, it is now. Which is why you’ve used your knowledge of herbs and the garden you tend to brew a sleeping draft, which you slip into his tea before bed. Perhaps it’s a bit of revenge, karma. But while the poisoned tea he gave you was meant to take your life, this is only meant to help. An act of mercy, forgiveness.

What do you dream of tonight?

The lab.

The stove.

Your notes.

Lucille.

Sadly it was not always Lucille that was the tormentor. But she was very good at it, and many of her acts have left a significant imprint.

You kept all your work in the lab. An attempt to appease your sister in law by keeping your research, your notes, experiments, thoughts, to a single room in Allerdale Hall. Although your mind always worked best when given room to breathe and stretch its legs, you thought it would be enough to get her to leave your work alone. But it was not.

She hated it. Hated what you were capable of doing. Despised that your brilliance drew her brother’s attention. Loathed that he spent so much time in that room, asking questions, watching, smiling.

“Please! That solution could help so many.” You are nearly on your knees, but force yourself to remain composed, unwilling to lose your dignity as well today. Lucille paces the room with your research, having already made it plain that she intends to destroy the notes. Yes, you are capable and intelligent, but not so much so that you can have all the data and formulas memorized. Years of work are in her hands, references from books you no longer have access to, results of hundreds of experiments. Your project was started long before you came to this house. Your life before you met that lying weasel.

“So?” Lucille pages through the notes, only half understanding the numbers and Latin scribbled on the parchment.

“So? You are carrying treatments for dozens of childhood ailments. There are antidotes to poisonings and snake bites. Remedies that could be brewed from common plants.” You clutch the edge of the table, so tightly your knuckles turn white. Every instinct tells you to lunge for her, but even reaching out may only advance the destruction of your work. “Children no longer have to die of lead poisoning because of our forefather’s choices in paint and pipe materials. They will be stronger than any generation before because they can have a weekly herbal drink straight from their mother’s flower garden.”

“I said, ‘So?’” Lucille looks you over with a smug glare.

This is when you turn to Thomas, desperate now; you’re voice pleading yet steady. “Thomas, please speak to her. Talk some sense into…I…” You’re voice cracks. Pale red lips are pursed together in an unyielding frown. Frigid blue eyes averted from the scene before him. He doesn’t care, you thought he could, but this is just an inconvenience to his day. Your cries for him to come help drew him away from his work outside. Away from the only thing that mattered to him. “Thomas I have worked on this for so long. You know what it’s like to create something, to put your heart and soul into it. How would you feel if I went and sabotaged that machine of yours, or burned the schematics in your workshop?”

That cold, unfeeling glare twists into a sneer, and he lets off a dry laugh. “That is not the same. For you to even think they are comparable shows how little you understand my work.” A piece of your brittleing heart chips off, lands amongst the shattered glass of beakers and vials. It was to be only one of many such shards that were taken by the crimson clay.

Lucille’s eyes sparkle with malevolent joy. “I realize you fancy yourself a chemist like your father, but such endeavors are frivolous.”

“I have worked so very hard to…” You stop. To what end do you fight? It will not change her mind. She cares nothing about medicine and the benefit of humankind. Her twisted, wretched heart only cares to ensure that you find no joy or pleasure in this place. That is what you have come to realize in this first month at Allerdale Hall.

“To what dear sister-in-law?” Lucille steps across the floor, feet deftly avoiding the broken glass while the hem of her dress causes them to create a bone-chilling sound as they drag across the floor. It is to the stove by which you draw the heat for your experiments that she has directed herself towards.

“To prove that I am just as capable as any man in the intellectual fields.” Your lower lip quivers while your gaze remains locked on the uncaring face of your Thomas. “To prove myself more than just a pretty face. Prove that just because I have married, it does not mean I have completely lost my mind.”

‘Once you find a good man you won’t feel the need to waste all your time with your head buried in those silly books.’ God, you wanted to slap your cousin Patricia more than ever now. She and Lucille might have gotten along lovely. Had it not been that phrase in the back of your mind when you allowed Thomas to court you, distract you from your work. You were so desperate to prove that you could balance love for a man with a passion for science.

And that man you adore, his figure grows even more rigid at your declaration. Those blue eyes are heartless when they lie upon you, at last, finally addressing rather than avoiding. At least the crimson flowing through this house shows that it carries life. As Lucille opens the cover to the stove, you belittle yourself for ever believing he loved you. Somebody with eyes like that can’t possibly be capable of love. Not yet.

You do not watch the paper burn. Do not watch the corners curl; the yellow sheets turn black. Is that pain in those icy eyes when tears roll down your cheeks? There is a kindness to that soul, and you refuse to deny it’s existence. You never saw the facade he put up to trick you and were never fooled by it either. The cold, the fear, you always saw it. But you saw the gentleness and potential for something more. You saw what his sister could never see.

Still, as the red flames grew and grew and consumed all that you had worked so hard for, it consumed you as well. Everything is on fire. And yet those two do not melt under its unbearable heat. You burn away; everything burns away.

It is so hot.

So hot.

“Stop the fire!!!” You lurch upwards, a half-strangled cry escaping your lips. Everything is pitch black; you don’t understand, where are you? It is so hot.

Too hot

Throwing covers off your body, you try desperately to alleviate the heat. Gasping for air only sets your lungs ablaze as well. Wanting desperately to sit up, you use all your strength to push yourself up, but a weight keeps you pinned down. It is so heavy and hot. Coals. Somebody has filled up your stomach with burning coals.

You thrash about. Is this the end? God, what a horrible way to go. But even God knows not to set foot on Crimson Peak, that is how you know that there is no salvation awaiting you, even in death. Another ghost trapped in the crimson clay.

“Put out the fire, please put it out.” All you wanted was to be loved for who you are not the woman society wanted you to be. The fire you started when Thomas entered your life is now killing you.

Burning coals shift within you. They press against the walls of your stomach, desperately seeking to tear you apart. Is setting you ablaze not enough? Must they rip you open too? So desperate to ease the suffering of your death you press a hand where the coals push out, hoping to contain them.

“Please… no more…” Barely a whimper. In the flames, you feel something impossible. “No… more…” Begging. The flames burn down to embers, leaving you a pile of ash and charcoal. One piece of coal that your ashen hands find in the ruins seems to resemble a tiny foot.

Suddenly it is as if you’ve been doused in icy water. Sweat is soaking the linen of your dressing gown freezing as it is exposed to the draft of this old cottage with it’s cracked windows and loose shingles. Deep, shuddering breaths slowly return you to reality. Your hands are pressed hard against the mountain of your belly, and your unborn child still moves about frantically, in distress from the terror that overtook its mother.

“Shhh… little one I’m sorry.” Your hands relax, moving slowly to attempt to give them some form of comfort. “It is alright… we are alright now.”

Tilting your head to the side you can see the features of Thomas’ face in the pale moonlight that slips through the curtains. The draft works well, and he doesn’t know a thing. Pink lips are slightly parted, and black hair is covering half his face in a romance novel fashion. But your husband’s brow is furrowed, eyes not resting shut but squeezed.

You remove one hand from your bulging belly so that you may brush those locks of hair away from his beautiful face. What does he dream of? Perhaps you will never know. For now it is better that way.


	3. Lavander

Thomas looks over his hands while waiting for the glue to set. He recalls a man met in America while searching for funding. Kushings. Briefly, his daughter, Edith, had been a target for the Sharpe’s plot. When he first met the man, he accused Thomas of having the softest hands he’d ever felt. That this was a sign of his character, he had never worked for anything in his life. Now, his hands have callouses that haven’t finished toughening, so they split open and bleed. His nails have rough edges from breaking, and dirt lodged underneath. The webbing between thumb and index finger is raw from swinging the axe to chop firewood, palms covered in splinter scabs. White scars wrap around, not quite visible against the pale skin, but he knows they are there, can feel them all the way down to his elbows, licking his biceps as well. What do these hands say about him now?

In the end, they were spared a grisly demise. The father was wise enough to ‘donate’ to Thomas’ pursuits so long as they left his daughter alone. Lucille was determined to murder the father and take the girl anyways. He gently reminded his sister that they had a far more valuable prey back on the English shore, and this check could tide them over until things fell into place for that one.

It was no the last they saw of Edith. Perhaps Thomas, or even Lucille, should have anticipated that she’d make her way to Cumberland in search of a dream she had concocted. To defend the Sharpe’s lack of foresight, they didn’t expect Edith to fall so deeply in love with Thomas over a few short days, so much so that she would pursue him overseas. In defense of Edith’s ambitious yet foolish quest to chase a psychotic killer in desperate romantic endeavor, she is a writer; her mind dedicated to brewing stories, and while not a fan of romance she indeed is a romantic; Thomas was so charming, so convincing, he made himself into the perfect character, so many of us desire to take us by the hand and bring us to our happily ever after. A thousand wrongs do not make a right, but they certainly do tell an interesting story.

If Lord Sharpe looked surprised to see his sister serving tea to Edith Kushings in their sitting room, it was minuscule emoting compared to the shock on her face when Lucille introduced the new bride of Edith’s love interest.

“Thomas, so glad you decided to join us. I was beginning to think the two of you might have gotten lost on the way home.” Lucille had her classic tense smile. “I mean really? Is it so hard to get here from the train station?” Several of the old possessions of the new bride needed to travel separately from them, there was a process to these sorts of things. It had been a nice break from the new house.

“We… ah…” The flustered man’s eyes flicked between his sister, his wife, and his… ex?

“I saw a patch of wild lavender near the road,” The bride said with an excited smile. Purple buds stuck out of her collar and sleeves, some is twisted into the locks of her hair. “The first cold snap will come any day now, it’s amazing they survived this long, and I was afraid if I waited then it would be too late, so I just had to stop and collect samples.” Her hands were still smudged with dirt, and the knees of Thomas’ trousers were soaked in mud. “Billy is getting some planter pots for me. I can tend them in here for the winter, then transplant them to our garden come spring.” She sighs a bit. “As I suspected the plants of my garden back home didn’t survive the trip, too long, cabins too dark. I have to start from scratch, and the lavender will help, it has anti-inflammatory properties did you know that?”

Lucille pursed her lips at Thomas, not looking kindly upon the wreath of flowers resting upon his dark hair. Thomas who was still staring at Edith; who had not yet come to grasp her presence and gleeful smile.

“I… thought some flowers might brighten up the place.” He fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat, unsure what to do with his hands.

“Lucille, would you be so kind as to introduce me to our guest, is this a friend of yours?” The bride had not missed the aura of the room. Although the smile she gave Edith was welcoming, she felt jealousy tightening in her chest.

Lucille’s eyes sparkled with sick delight upon realizing the marital strife she could cause. “This is Miss. Edith Kushings, a woman Thomas befriended while we were in America. She’s journeyed here to follow up on business with my brother. Her father invested in your husband’s work.” Edith’s face fell like a glass chandelier. “Edith this is the new Lady Sharpe, it’s a shame you did not come sooner, the wedding was only a fortnight ago. You would have been a welcomed guest, but we did not want you to cross the ocean just for a small ceremony.” And it shattered her porcelain face, pieces strewn amongst a century-old ceiling decoration, twinking in the light of a destructive fire.

Edith stood, extending her hand out of respect. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Lady Sharpe.

Thomas was holding his breath, almost expecting that the moment the two women make contact, it will create an event so powerful that the universe will disintegrate.

"It’s a pleasure to see you again Miss. Kushings. I hadn’t expected…” He is cut off by a sad yet sharp look from Edith.

“Edith, it’s good to know that my Thomas has a friend who would care so much to go so far to see him.” His wife grasped the girl’s hand and shook it firmly, the kind of shake that asserts dominance but does not invite conflict. “But Lady Sharpe is still dear Lucille’s title; I have no intention of usurping her position as lady of the house.” She thumbed the lavender sticking out her sleeves after the handshake. “You can call me Vivi, just a nickname.” Thomas’ heart thundered like a love-struck teen at his wife’s soft smile. “I always looked like my mother Vivianne, so I inherited her childhood nickname.”

Edith’s pain seems to fade from her eyes just a bit; there has always been something about this woman that heals the pain of the heart. “Vivi, that is sweet, but then what is…”

“For another time. Now, tell me about America.”

And they would see her again and again, and maybe will some more.

Thomas begins to wonder what lies in the future for his hands. He wonders what he will make with them, take with them, hold with them. A smile creeps across his face. He moves his arms over his chest, turning his hands as if cradling a bundle. Work has already begun on his greatest creation, one so magnificent he hopes to one day make a second, possibly a third. However many Thomas is blessed with though, at this moment he is desperately impatient to hold his baby, almost annoyed that it is taking so long to grow inside his brilliant, beautiful wife.

That image in his mind, that beautiful bundle in his arms, it twists suddenly. Where he thought he hears a baby’s coo, there is suddenly a squall. Adoration is replaced by horror. Pride with guilt. Anticipation with grief.

Thomas gasps for air, terror overtaking every fiber of his being. The mistake takes its rightful place in Lord Sharpe’s arms. He is set ablaze, unable to scream.


End file.
